"Shall us smoke, or would it be out of order?" asked the landlord of the Castle Inn.
Spry looked imploringly at the schoolmaster. He hated the smell of tobacco, and suffered from a nervous cough. But Mr. Churchward liked his pipe as well as smaller men, and he declared for smoke.
"I've a new box of 'churchwardens' in this drawer," he said. "I beg the committee will make free with them. Now—but where's Mr. Norseman? Speaking the word 'churchwarden' reminded me of him. We want him to complete the committee."
The official in question almost immediately joined them. Henry Norseman was a swarthy, black-bearded, sanctimonious man, the factor of important estates, and churchwarden of the people.
They sat round the table that Mr. Churchward had cleared for them. Pens and paper were arranged upon it, and the box of clay pipes stood in the midst. A fire burnt on the hearth, and two oil lamps gave light.
"'Tis a very comfortable committee, I'm sure," said Mr. Huggins, stretching for a tobacco pipe, and bringing a flat metal box from his trouser pocket to fill it.
Mr. Churchward opened the proceedings.
"What we have to decide is the sort of thing we are going to do the day the water comes into Lydford. I have my idea, but I am quite prepared to submit it sub rosa. If anybody has a better one, I shall be the first to agree thereto. Now my notion is a public holiday and a procession. This procession should start from the high road and walk through Lydford down to Little Lydford, and back. At a foot's pace 'twould take not above three hours."
"And I propose that the procession stops at the Castle Inn on the way back," said Mr. Pearn.
"Why?" asked Jarratt Weekes, pointedly, and the publican bristled up.